Insecurities are for People Only

My insecurities rise like bloated fragments of a corpse to the surface of a still and murky pond after years of decomposing. What do you think so far? I'm trying to grab the reader off guard and grasp his or her attention with the very first line, though I have absolutely nowhere to go with the thought. Laree has banished herself to the loft where she has willingly chained her right leg to the computer hardware as if it were a millstone. A brave girl, she sits stoically before the neat stack of pages Cheryl, our Miss Smarty proofreader, has generously referred to as "the manuscript." Some manuscript; it looks like she stood back about twenty yards and randomly unloaded her twelve-gauge shotgun in its general direction. Every line's got a ding; Cheryl insists on commas and periods and is not a fan of my casual spelling. Duh.

Back to my insecurities: Even though I'm as fit as Hercules himself, I have to take a medication or two. All males 58 and over are obliged to take something or other for this or that; it's a social responsibility. To make a long story short, my doc (whose name is not Mike) altered my meds hoping a change would be in my favor. Not.

Gradually all the symptoms listed under "cautions, side effects and contra-indications," which we are, most of us, too clever to read, began to take over my unsuspecting body. The loss of appetite I attributed to tuna and cottage cheese overload. The suppression and shortness of breathe must be my lack of aerobics, what with the book and all. Shame on me... get back in the saddle, boy! My unwillingness to get out of bed in the morning to go to work caught Laree's attention, as did my willingness to crash on the floor upon returning home after work. Dizzy, drowsy, depressed and apathetic are not the conditions under which one performs best. It was the diarrhea that put me over the edge. The Bomber, goin' down fast.

Suddenly, a dim, yellowing light went on in my slowly deteriorating mind. Blast this stinking bug with the strongest antibiotic known to man. Ignore the skull and cross bones on the label: extreme measures for extreme occasions. Gulp. Do not take near open flame. Four days later I'm green and crawling on all fours. The gym is not a pleasant sight. I am not a pleasant sight. Food is my enemy and the scale is plotting against me. I eat, I train and all along I say, "Something is better than nothing."

I cheerlessly prepared my Bomber Blend for breakfast (I must confess, a tiny smile dared to curl my lips) and sorted out my colorful collection of vitamins, minerals, aminos and such until I came to the prescription department. As I fumbled the slippery capsules with my fat fingers I noticed I didn't want to put them in my mouth... That's it. There it was. The problem and the solution right before my eyes. The simple and subtle change of medication that had me plummeting will be addressed squarely and precisely: Dump the new high-tech stuff in the garbage and resume the tried and true. Back to the basics.

That was this morning. Hence, the delay in the article. As mentioned earlier, "something is better than nothing." I now feel like a million and the book is back in action, on schedule. Hear this: the GQ article of a year ago is on the schedule also, slotted for the November 2000 issue. God's perfect timing as this matches the release of the book and an article I wrote for the November Muscle and Fitness mag. Tomorrow is leg day. Squats. Hamburgers. Yum.

The Bomber returns to the land of the living.

INSECURITIES ARE FOR PEOPLE ONLY